The Way of the Peacock
by Shakespira
Summary: The true tale of a man nicknamed "Peacock" and the blue wrapper that came into his possession one night in Montsimmard.


**The Way of the Peacock**

Riordan was thirsty. He, Duncan and Ceres had been in the Deep Roads for the better part of a week, cleaning out a particularly nasty party of darkspawn and the ale had not lasted nearly as long as they had hoped. Now that they were back in town, he was impatient to quench his thirst. He stood in the common room of the Grey Warden compound waiting for his friends to join him.

Montsimmard boasted a number of taverns but only one whose ale and barmaids were perfection, one barmaid in particular. Dulcinea, with her amber eyes and mane of unruly dark hair. He could almost feel the silky strands drifting against his skin. As soon as they had cleaned up, Riordan clapped Duncan on the back and said, "Brother, you look parched. First round is on me."

Duncan eyed him warily. Riordan was not known for his generosity in buying drinks. Ceres, his nutmeg eyes crinkled, came up to them and asked, "Where are we off to?"

"Riordan's buying drinks. Let him choose," Duncan responded and Riordan laughed, blue eyes dancing.

"Where else but the Wren and Wastrel?" he said and rubbed his hands together in anticipation of seeing the lovely Dulcinea with her swaying hips and tender lips. He brushed his hair back. Had he more time and inclination, he would have tied it back but his thoughts were on a frothy pint and a beautiful barmaid.

The tavern was crowded and it took them time to find a place to sit but they found a small table close to the stage where a minstrel was plying her trade. Her voice was honey and spice as she sang her tales, her fingers plucking at her lute. Tapered fingers, Riordan noticed, long and nimble. He moved his eyes up to her firm curves, and further to the multitude of golden braids that surrounded her piquant face. Her lips were full and pouty, as if constantly begging to be kissed. He found himself mesmerized by her and she caught his eyes with her own and gave him a small smile.

Duncan leaned forward and nudged him. Riordan reluctantly brought his gaze back to his friends. "Dulcinea," was all Duncan said and Riordan gave a lighthearted laugh.

"Not here tonight, lad. I asked Peiron on the way in."

Duncan let out a sigh. Riordan's life was his own, to do with what he liked, but he had seen the proprietary way Dulcinea watched him and Montsimmard would not be big enough for both Riordan and Dulcinea if she was angry enough at Riordan. Being a realist, Duncan held his counsel. Riordan would do what Riordan did. Get into a scrape and then gracefully get out of it again. The man was a menace, but he was a canny menace.

When the minstrel finished her song and set her lute aside, Riordan made his move. "You've a fine voice, lass. And your fingers are quite _nimble _on that instrument."

Ceres elbowed Duncan in the ribs and leaned over to whisper, "Worst pick up line I've ever heard."

"No doubt, but it will work, mark my words," Duncan responded, lifting his mug and taking a long pull of the cool ale. Riordan's laughter interrupted Ceres' reply.

"Of course, lass. I'd love to see how you handle _other_ instruments."

As Riordan and the minstrel wandered over to the stairs that led up to the rooms above the tavern, Duncan shook his head. Ceres just chuckled. The man had a way, an innate charm that women seemed to find irresistible.

Riordan slipped his arm around the minstrel's slim waist. "I'm Riordan," he introduced as they made their way up the narrow staircase.

"Florinda, but everyone calls me Flora," she replied and her voice was a caress of warmth. Riordan felt that familiar stirring of blood and heat.

"What brings you to Montsimmard, Flora? And the Wren and Wastrel in particular. A woman with your talents should be playing for the empress," he said and then wondered briefly if he was laying it on a bit too thick, even for him. He flashed her a smile, the dimples in his cheeks dancing.

"I came to meet you, of course," she replied with a saucy toss of her braided hair.

Riordan's laughter drifted in their wake. A lovely, lively wench. He liked that. His hand tightened around her waist, Dulcinea temporarily forgotten.

"Come in and get comfortable," she said, opening the door to her room. He glanced around the windowless room. Another lute and a saltere were resting on the small desk, as well as a tambourine. A blue silk wrapper was spread across the bed. The blue was the exact color of her eyes and he told her so.

"It is called peacock blue, it is the height of fashion at the moment." She smiled boldly, sliding into his arms and wrapping her own around his waist. "Perhaps I can wear it for you later. Would you like that?" she asked, her voice husky with suggestion.

"Aye lass," he answered, pulling her closer.

"Does your instrument need attention?" she breathed into his skin and the stirring in his blood became more than a restless urge, it became a want.

He ran his hands along her curves, bending to capture her pouting lips, tugging at the lower lip that begged to be bitten and nibbled. She tangled her fingers in his hair and then yanked as they actually did become tangled. He bit back a yelp of pain, his eyes watering.

"Oh, I am so sorry. Perhaps you should wear your hair like mine, no?" she teased and before he knew what he was about, lust crazed as he was, she sat him down on a chair and began to braid his hair into small, tight braids, the whole time dropping kisses on the nape of his neck.

"Hmmm," he hummed as her nimble fingers made short work of his hair. As she reached around him to find a small strip of leather to bind one of his braids, he felt the gentle curve of a breast brush against him and he let out another humming breath. He reached up and captured her hand, bringing to his lips and lightly kissing it, brushing his tongue along the ride of knuckles. She rewarded him with another kiss on his nape and he found himself stretching his neck to allow for easier access.

"I could kiss you much more thoroughly without all these clothes getting in the way," she whispered against his ear and the urge that had turned into want now became need. He struggled out of his linen shirt and wool trousers. She purred softly against his bared chest and her fingers trailed along his fevered skin.

"Let me finish these braids and then we can do something to relieve that pressure I see building," she teased breathlessly.

He nodded, completely entranced by the lovely beauty until he heard a familiar voice screaming above the din from below.

"Dulcinea," he whispered, his voice now edged with the merest hint of panic.

Flora raised a brow. "Who or what is a Dulcinea?" she asked quietly.

Riordan's eyes widened as Dulcinea's voice rose in anger. "She's a barmaid here. I have seen her a time or two," he admitted with a shameless grin.

"Ah, well it appears she is on her way, you'd best hurry," Flora said with another saucy grin and pushed the blue wrapper into his suddenly clumsy hands and he was thrusting his arms into it as quickly as he could because Dulcinea's voice was getting closer and closer. Without thinking, he put a protective hand over his private parts, the first place Dulcinea would strike, knowing her fiery temper.

"There's a back staircase at the end of the hall. It takes you into an alley I believe," Flora said, pushing him out the door with a good natured chuckle. He bent and dropped a quick kiss on her lips but didn't linger. Time was of the essence.

Riordan's self preservation took precedence over his fear of being caught in the wrapper by some unwitting drunk who'd stumbled into the back allies. He flew down the back stairs and burst through the door. Into the tavern's main room. He stumbled to a stop, eyes wide. Dulcinea's cries were coming nearer. Without giving anyone a chance to ask, he headed across the crowded tavern and out the back door and the safety of the alleyway.

Peiron, the barkeep was upstairs calming his best barmaid down, taking the butcher knife carefully out of her hand. Duncan and Ceres were collapsed on the table laughing, unable to catch their breath.

Florinda, the beautiful minstrel, came up to their table, hands on hips. "I believe you owe me a sovereign," she told Duncan with a bright smile.

Duncan rummaged in his coin purse for the money, worth every copper to see his best friend Riordan running through the tavern wearing a peacock blue wrapper and a head full of braids.


End file.
